


we'll meet again (i won't be long)

by citylights



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Making Up, different first meeting, only a little angst, past break up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citylights/pseuds/citylights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's down at the pub after having just returned from Afghanistan when he unexpectedly runs into his college ex: Sherlock Holmes. It only takes one chance meeting for John to realize what he'd been missing.<br/>There isn't too much plot but there's sex. So there's that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll meet again (i won't be long)

**Author's Note:**

> First story and therefore my first attempt at writing porn. Sorry. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Title is ripped from Vera Lynn's gorgeous "We'll Meet Again."

He was only a little tipsy. Not nearly drunk enough to forget why he came here.

A cocktail of emotions stirred in his stomach, making him feel queasy: depression, loneliness, his existential crisis. And the guilt, of course, which always came with alcohol nowadays courtesy of Harriet Watson.

The self-pity was new, but surely that came with all career-terminating injuries.

John picked up his bottle and took a swig of the lukewarm beer. He couldn’t feel his fingers.

“'s fuckin’ awful, innit?” John griped at the barkeep who was wiping mugs with a rag. “The cane? Everyone’s always staring at it. Fuckin’ doctor and I can’t even fix an imaginary limp.” The bartender looked mildly uncomfortable and more than a little jumpy. John slumped in his seat.

He had just opened his mouth to inform everyone within hearing range about his opinion of Ella the therapist when he felt someone move close beside him and whirl to face the bar.

“Do you know that blood that has been pooled for fourteen hours has not yet coagulated enough to completely dry?” the man said casually, seemingly to no one. Or maybe it was just to anyone who would listen.

And god, would John know that voice anywhere.

He turned to stare at the strikingly handsome features that were once ingrained into his brain and on the skin behind his eyelids. He had aged wonderfully, clearly having gained control of the lanky limbs of his youth as he threw himself onto a stool with all the elegance and importance of a Victorian gentleman.

John’s eyes travelled slowly up from the broad chest to the wiry muscles, sloping neck, and finally meeting a nonplussed mercurial gaze. He had the decency and cognizance to look embarrassed.

“John Watson.” Sherlock blurted out in astonishment, his knuckles tightening against the bar.

“If it isn’t Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes.” John was in disbelief at how collected and relatively sober he sounded. Thankfully, the alcohol had taken the edge off some of the humiliation at being seen in his state.

Whereas Sherlock had apparently blossomed into his appearance, John felt he had withered. His cane leaned heavily against his stool, his shoulder was still wrapped tightly in the bandages from the hospital and twinged painfully with every slight movement.

“What... What are you--?” Sherlock paused, his eyes sweeping over John before clearing up as he answered his own question.

John slumped his shoulders and smiled tightly, well aware of the conclusions Sherlock was able to reach from a quick glance. The bartender shifted and Sherlock snapped back to attention.

“If you had joined your wife for dinner at eight as you said you had and found her body after you woke at seven, the time when your phone alarm was set to go off, her blood would still have been pooling when the police arrived around ten minutes later. From the coagulation of the blood, the murder would had to have taken place at 5 o’clock the earliest. That gave you fourteen hours to set up the scene as though you had gone to bed with her when in actuality you spent the night with your mistress, made clear from the strength of your cologne and her perfume, not your wife’s, on the bed sheets. Obvious.”

Sherlock rattled out the words as rapidly as his tongue would allow, not even turning to look when the bartender bolted for the door. John, however, who had been listening raptly to Sherlock’s entire speech, tackled the man without hesitation, pinning his wrists to the floor and digging his knee into the bartender’s lower back. The man grunted beneath him as two policemen burst through the door.

The officers paused, taking in the scene. Blood raced through John’s veins, his heart pumping wildly at both the adrenaline of catching a criminal and at seeing Sherlock. He felt as though he were nineteen again.

“Amazing, Sherlock. You are brilliant.” John laughed breathlessly from atop the murderer. Sherlock looked dazed.

“Really, John, that was unnecessary. The police could have handled it. They were waiting outside.”

“Now, when have you ever sat back and let the police do all the work?” They exchanged wide smiles.

Something lost had found its way back to John in a wave of nostalgia. He was entirely unsurprised to find that his limp was gone and his cane was lying, ineffectual, on the floor.

  
\--

  
Thirty minutes later found John sitting in the back of a parked ambulance, his legs dangling out the back and a rough orange blanket swaddling him. Sergeant Sally Donovan regarded him with a notepad and a skeptical expression.

“You restrained Mr. Heston without having had any previous information on the case?” she raised her eyebrows.

“Well, he did make a run for it--”

“John!” Sherlock strode quickly over to the ambulance, grabbing John gently by his forearms and stepping between his parted knees.

“You know him?” Sally seemed to be having an aneurism at the proximity of the two men. It was unclear who she was speaking to.

“I do believe you have ears, Sergeant Donovan, and it might befit you to use them. I am indeed on a first-name basis with my… my _ex_.” Sherlock said flippantly, his hands running over John’s scalp and torso to check for bruises or scratches. John winced when they pressed against a particularly tender spot from the tackle. Sherlock’s fingers somehow managed to skirt around the hidden bandages of his bullet wound that were tucked under his sleeve.

“Ex?” she echoed blankly. “You’ve got an ex? An _ex-boyfriend_?”

“Do stop asking idiotic questions, Sally. I’m beginning to suspect you’ve proven my hypothesis that Anderson is capable of transmitting stupidity.”

“Sherlock.” John smiled, his head having sobered up from the jolt of adrenaline and awareness at the strangeness of the situation, which struck him all at once. “You’re looking fit as ever.” Sherlock’s ears tinged pink as he removed his hands from John’s chest.

“Yes, well, I see the army has done you some good as well.” His eyes trailed to where John’s wrinkled shirt had ridden up earlier and flashed a bit of the muscled torso underneath. John shrugged self-consciously, running a hand through his hair.

"You were shot." Sherlock states softly then, his eyes drawn to John's shoulder. "I can't-"

“No, I still don’t understand.” Sally whipped around to look accusingly at John.”You _willingly_ dated this man? You were _in a relationship_ with Sherlock Holmes?”

“And if I was?” John asked stiffly, his back straightening and chin tilting upwards.

He began to get those defensive feelings, the ones he hadn’t felt since he’d broken Sebastian Wilkes’ nose on the football field. Or when he had taken on three of Sherlock’s classmates in an alley after finding a bruise across Sherlock’s ribcage. Sherlock could identify the emotions flitting across John’s face well enough to touch his shoulder lightly. It wouldn’t do to have John thrown in prison for threatening an officer. Luckily, Sally was clever enough to figure this out herself.

“I think we’re done here. Lestrade will… probably be round for your statement, fr-Holmes.” Sally waved them off, but the strange expression on her face hadn’t left. In her bemusement, she’d forgotten her hatred of the man and had to wonder about her own life decisions if Sherlock Holmes had a looker – a soldier no less – like that in his repertoire. And a protective one at that.

“You caught me a murderer, so I do believe I owe you dinner. I know a good place nearby, Italian. That is, if you’ll join me?” Sherlock asked as though John would ever refuse.

“Lead the way.” said John.

They fell back into the pattern that had never broken, Sherlock leading and John never far behind.

 

\--

 

Dinner was a quiet affair with ample conversation. The restaurant had closed twenty minutes before they arrived but Angelo always made exceptions for Sherlock. They spoke in hushed tones over a small candle and steaming plates of gnocchi.

“Still solving crimes then?” John smiled fondly, his eyes glazing over with the memories of their youth.

A young Sherlock with wild hair and a four hundred pound Burberry scarf who romped through the snow and made deductions. A naive, unmarred John trotting after him with starstruck eyes.

“When have you known me to do anything else?” Sherlock returned the smile unsurely, an odd expression crossing his features. John had always been capable of bringing sentiment to Sherlock’s otherwise emotionless stoicism.

They made pointless small talk, the kind of meaningless conversation that Sherlock deemed “dull” with anyone that wasn’t John. They spent an hour skirting around what they wanted to say before stepping out into the empty London streets.

“I’ve missed you.” John said, his gaze dropping to where his hands were toying with the hem of his jumper. Like somebody ripped my bloody heart out and never gave it back, he didn’t say.

“Then why did you leave?” Sherlock retorted sharply, the wine having removed what few inhibitions and insecurities he had. A long-forgotten wound made itself known as he felt his heart constrict. “You could have stayed.”

“You know why.” John said softly.

“No, John. Of all the silly excuses and illogical justifications you have explained to me, the reason for your escape to the military was not among them.”

“Please, Sherlock. Please, just. Not right now.” John said somewhat desperately. For a moment his eyes shone with what might have been tears.

“I do not mean to offend you, John. Or to hurt you.” Sherlock replied stiffly.

“I know, but I don’t think- I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“It was a surprise that was not unwelcome.” They walked in silence for a few minutes more.

“So have you found anyone?” John asked suddenly, without really meaning to.

“Found anyone?” Sherlock echoed.

“You know, platonically, romantically?”

“No,” he looked like he wanted to say more, but he faltered.

“It’s so lovely to see you solving crimes.” John tried again. “There’s no one in the world who can keep up with you when you’re on a case, I just--”

“John.”

“I want you to know I’m so pleased for you. You seem well-”

“John, please.”

They had stopped walking and stood in front of 221b Baker Street.

“It’s been years since we've spoken, John. I think I deserve to know why you left me.” Sherlock turned to watch the other man.

This John Watson that Sherlock had been denied the privilege of memorizing and holding and loving, not that that had stopped him from dreaming about it. Sherlock wanted to know what had happened to the boy who made his lonely nights the best of his life. Why this marvel of a human being ever willingly spent his time with Sherlock, he didn’t know. But God, did Sherlock want to know what it was that had at last pushed him away.

“I tried…” John started to tremble. “I tried to be enough for you. I wanted to be someone who deserved you. That’s all I wanted, was to be enough for you, Sherlock. I knew it was selfish of me to stay with you anyway. You deserved so much more, so much better. I had to leave.”

They stared at each other.

“Christ, John. You’re the densest idiot I have ever– I wanted you John. It was never about deserving anyone. God, you think I thought I deserved you? You thought I would– what? Find some other bloke who doesn’t want to change me, who is perfect for me in every way. John Watson, you’re all I’ve ever needed.”

They should have answered his questions, filled him with joy, but instead John felt more hollow than before.

“Even if it was enough before, it certainly isn’t now. Fuck, Sherlock, look at me. What use am I to anyone now? A psychosomatic limp, bullet wound, night terrors. I can hardly keep up with you.” John hunched over, his leg beginning to cramp up. _Stupid_. He’d left the cane at the bar.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock gripped John by the lapels and brought him close. His breath was warm, caressing his cheeks in hot puffs as they breathed each other in.

“For god’s sake, what must I do to have you believe me? I don’t want anything else, I don’t want you any other way. I’ve never gotten over you, John. All the rest aside, I’ll never want for anything other than you. Exactly as you are.” They were moving closer, millimeter by millimeter, until their noses brushed.

John swallowed and closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. It was like a ridiculous dream, the same one he’d had for years only better than anything he could have come up with. It was all he’d wanted to hear. He tilted his chin up and moved in, allowing his lips to touch lightly over Sherlock’s. John spent a few moments just brushing against him, his hands drifting up to cup the taller man’s frozen cheeks.

“Care to invite me in, detective?” John whispered against his mouth before pulling away.

Sherlock followed his lips as they parted, then fumbled in his pocket for his keys. It took him a minute to insert the right one before they toppled through the door. Sherlock bolted up the stairs without looking back, John racing up behind him and into the flat. They slammed the door and locked it before facing each other, panting heavily. John snorted and Sherlock grinned.

“Bedroom.” said Sherlock definitively, tugging on John’s arm. He whirled them both into a nearby room and flicked on a lamp on the nightstand. The bed was littered with newspaper clippings, empty beakers, and crumpled clothes, but the blankets were neatly tucked in. The bed looked like it had never actually been slept in before. Sherlock looked flustered, shoving the clutter off the bed and onto the floor. The glass tubes clinked dangerously on the wood boards but didn’t break. John only shook his head in a mix of disapproval and fondness.

“I guess we should… get our kits off.” said John awkwardly. Sherlock nodded jerkily and started to unbutton his shirt.

John tugged his t-shirt over his head, taking care to gently stretch the sleeve over his bandages. He unbuttoned his trousers and looked up to find Sherlock staring unabashedly. Slowly, John pulled his pants and trousers down and toed off his socks without breaking eye contact. He then reached for Sherlock’s zip.

Sherlock forwent any attention paid to his own shirt as he placed his hands on John’s hips. He let his fingers caress the tight stomach and smooth pectorals of his lover, gingerly brushing over the pebbled nipples standing erect on John’s chest. John moaned softly, touching Sherlock carefully through his silk boxers. Sherlock’s knees buckled in surprise and he knocked into John, sending the other man down onto the bed.

“Ow, fuck.” said John into the blankets, gripping the spot just beneath his bullet wound.

“Oh, fuck.” said Sherlock, self-deprecatingly tugging at his hair. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” he said through gritted teeth. “It just smarts, is all.”

Guiltily, Sherlock slid his hands around John’s hips to grip at his firm arse in what was certainly safer territory. John let out a quiet whimper. Sherlock rolled them over so John was settled in his lap. John leveraged himself to grind his bare cock into Sherlock’s clothed groin. They both moaned.

“I want to ride you.” John told him, untucking him from his boxers and rolling them down.

“That is acceptable.” Sherlock wheezed, his hand reaching blindly for lube in the nightstand drawer while John stroked them both in one hand.

He uncapped the lubricant and applied it generously to his fingers before lifting John’s hips. Sherlock circled his fingers around John’s hole, dipping his index finger inside. John was very vocal in his approval.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long, love,” said John breathlessly. “I don’t mind a little burn.”

With that, the detective slid a second finger in and stretched John ruthlessly, his other hand stroking his lover’s cock. They sat there for a long moment, each breathing heavily and groaning sporadically. John rut his hips impatiently.

“I’m ready, sweetheart, please.” John implored.

Sherlock slicked himself quickly and thoroughly, his cock rubbing in the dip of John’s arse. He allowed himself to enjoy the filthy slide of flesh before slipping the tip into John. In a wholly animalistic manner, John ground down onto Sherlock, forcefully impaling himself until he was fully seated. Sherlock opened his mouth helplessly as John began to move.

Despite the searing burn, John pushed through the pain and easily pinpointed his prostate, grunting appreciatively when Sherlock began rolling his hips upward to match his rhythm. The room was filled with the sounds of slapping flesh, carnal cries, and labored breath.

“God, you’re gorgeous like this.” Sherlock managed in a strangled voice. “You’re made for this. Riding me, my cock and no one else’s. How could you ever–oh, oh, god–ever think I’d want more than this?”

“You’re everything, Sherlock. Fuck, you’re so brilliant and beautiful. Only you. _Sherlock_ , yes.”

Sherlock’s thrusts became quicker and shallower as John’s movements slowed to long, strained strokes. Sherlock drove himself once more into the tight heat of John’s body as his release blurred his vision.

His partner rode through it, moving ever closer to his own orgasm as Sherlock lost his breath. John lay panting and hard on his side when Sherlock flipped them over and regained control of his lungs.

Sliding down John’s body, Sherlock took him into his mouth and suckled softly once, twice, three times before John saw stars. Sherlock caught each drop that escaped his mouth and swallowed reverently. They lay together and stared at the ceiling, Sherlock’s fingers stroking softly through John’s hair.

“For the record, I’d never gotten over you either.” John admitted quietly, catching Sherlock’s fingers in his own.

“Obviously, John.”


End file.
